Gathright, somewhat suspicious of Hylda’s father, took care to keep two steps behind the chief-engineer. They reached and ducked under the bulkhead beam where the door connected the engine-room with the boiler-room. Richter found a flashlamp, snapped it on, swung its rays around and about as if showing Gathright his new duties.
“There’s a motor-driven feed-pump,” he said. “Something’s the matter with the motor’s commutator. It sparks under load—can you fix it up?”
There was a professional challenge in the chief engineer’s voice; Gathright forgot caution, got down on his knees, leaned toward the motor and ran one finger over the commutator bars. They seemed polished and free from carbon.
Richter reversed his grip on the flashlamp, swung once, twice, and smashed the battery-end of the lamp down on Gathright’s head, just over the top of the electrician’s right ear.
Gathright fell as if pole-axed and dropped with his hands twitching on a metal plate.
Striking a match, Richter surveyed the electrical engineer.
“Good!” he grunted. “Now I put you where nobody’ll ever look—unless I give the order.”
A stump of candle, stuck by wax to a feed-pipe, allowed Richter illumination sufficient to work by. Swearing, sweating, listening once, he fitted a spanner to bolt-heads on a man-plate in the spare boiler and removed the stubborn bolts until the plate clanged at his feet.
Gathright was a slender man, easy to insert through the man-hole; Richter had no trouble at all lifting the electrician and thrusting him out of sight.